


Warrior Girl

by Kiwi_the_Kylee



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23183308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiwi_the_Kylee/pseuds/Kiwi_the_Kylee
Summary: Its on Sakkar he first sees you, a woman who looks beyond fragile aside his brother and the others imprisoned alongside him, even with the scars lining your skin. Scars mar the skin around the disk imbedded in your neck, much more noticeable than the scars lining the rest of your body-those weren’t bleeding.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

Its on Sakkar he first sees you, a woman who looks beyond fragile aside his brother and the others imprisoned alongside him, even with the scars lining your skin. Scars mar the skin around the disk imbedded in your neck, much more noticeable than the scars lining the rest of your body-those weren’t _bleeding_.

You’re silent as his image speaks with Thor, only offering a glance when he first appeared. He’d recall later the cold calculation seated within the glance, absolutely barren of emotion. That was the look of someone ready to kill.

It was almost enough to send a chill down his spine.

×

You fight like an animal.

Every time you’re knocked away from your opponent, you come back with all the ferocity of a caged beast, using teeth and nails and a fantastic display of the deftness your hands possess when occupied by blades. There would be no distinguishing your show of aggression in the arena from absolute _hatred_ for the man you fought.

The crowd is shouting your name.

You’re not much compared to his champion, but Loki can see the veiled admiration in the Grandmaster’s eyes, if only slight. You’re clearly not a new arrival to this battle, not that the scars marring your skin didn’t already give that away.

Your work with blades is much more calculated than the damage caused by your teeth and bare hands. With one, it seems to fall seamlessly from hand to hand, the moment of hand-off almost invisible as one hand distracts and the other slices. With two, you glide around the enemy with elegance he couldn’t ever recall seeing. At least, he couldn’t recall seeing it in the midst of a bloody fight, from a woman covered in blood—both her own and not.

The animal vanishes.

You make the remainder of the fight resemble a dance, your opponent—larger than you by more than five times—tripping over himself in all attempts to catch you. His size works against him and you easily launch yourself onto his back and embed one of your blades in his neck.

You stand on the man’s body for a moment, panting and catching your bearings, the moment of victory such a sudden change from the time of violence preceding it.

When you leave the arena, though the man is still breathing and all major arteries and organs remain unscathed, you’re covered in his blood. Underneath the gore, your own damage is hidden. Loki can’t help but wish to chance visiting your prison again, if only to ensure your well-being.

×

You stand beside them against Hela, your battle-worn mind and body taking their greatest hit against her. Yet, you stand with all the strength of the Asguardian warriors beside you without letting the damage that mars you mentally show, not until well after the fight is done and you’re alone.

You revel for a moment in your regained freedom, before falling against a wall and sliding to the floor. Though you try to avoid it, try to bury all loss and pain for the moment, to have at least a short time of _peace_ after the torment you’ve faced, pain seeps through and you’re sobbing before you know it.

Pained pants escape your throat as you try to breathe—why can’t you _breathe_?

Fear explodes in your chest as you begin to think that—after all this time fighting and surviving—you’re going to die _here_ alone on a crowded ship where no one knows your name. You’re going to die to some unknown injury sustained in one of your countless fights—and it’s all you deserve isn’t it? You’re a killer yourself, after all. You could only hope you’d redeemed yourself far enough by helping save innocents that whatever waited for you on the other side wasn’t worse than what you were leaving behind.

It could have only been seconds after your chest first began to feel as though it was collapsing in on itself that he arrived, though it felt like centuries.

Your hands are clutching at your chest, nails digging rivets into the unprotected skin at your neck and you’re certain he’s going to haul you off to someone who can help fix whatever is _wrong_ with you.

It takes Loki a moment to realize what’s happening, and that more stress and crowding is far from what you need.

He crouches by your side, encouraging you to breathe and—after instinctually moving away from his presence—you want to yell that you _can’t_ that you need help, not the nonsense he’s providing you.

However, his calm demeanor does wonders on your bruised and battered psyche and he is able to quickly coax you against his chest, and, although the beating of your heart against your ribcage is harsh, the painful constriction in your chest begins to ebb.

“Match my breaths.”

It’s easier said than done and it is far, _far_ longer to slow your breaths then you would have wished, but he’s patient and calm throughout it all and his calm is infectious. Finally, your breaths do slow and exhaustion quickly takes the place of your panic.

A minute or two pass after the fear dissipates with no more words, only the sound of his breaths and your own, heavier attempts to match them.

You’re the one to break the silence, “I’m [Y/N].”

Well, a panic attack was one way to begin an acquaintance, though the weight of you leaning against his chest with no indication of movement seemed more than an acquaintance, he was willing to blame your clear exhaustion.

“Loki.”

You hummed, having already heard his name and well aware he’d heard yours in the screaming crowd, still, you were unwilling to let silence fall again, for fear your thoughts would reappear and, with them, the raging pain that had choked your lungs and made you struggle to remember how to breathe. “Thanks for saving my life.”

You tilted your head to give him the best grin you could muster, well aware you _weren’t_ going to die now, and he _knew_ that he’d do anything to see that smile in all of its glory.

“I won’t be needing your saving again, though,” your grin dimmed to a lazy smile, that wasn’t soon to fade.

Loki chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest and vibrating against your head and back, “We’ll see about that.”

“Next time, I’ll be doing the saving. You can count on that.”


	2. Scars

The scars weren’t attractive.

They stood out against your [S/T] skin, unsightly reminders of the time spent building walls around your mind and heart on Sakkar and before.

You spent every morning glaring at your reminders in the mirror in your room—something you adamantly requested the removal of. The remains of what you’d done to your neck were the most visible, deep and still healing— _hopefully_ still healing—and you’d seen the others’ eyes drawn to the area more than once.

The _others_ were far more accepting of you—who Thor hailed as much a hero as Valkarie—than of Loki, at least, they were to your face. You’d been told why they seemed to tread so carefully with Loki and it only served to make the looks they gave _you_ all the more insulting.

You had nothing against Loki—after he had pulled you from your panic attack, you’d even grown to find his presence comforting, following him around like a puppy as subtly as you possibly could—but he _had_ attacked them. You’d done nothing of the sort and still received looks of distrust and it ignited the spark of bitterness that burned so bright within you. So, you avoided them, keeping your lips sealed when hearing the plans of missions that you _knew_ you could be an asset on and keeping yourself to your room in their waking moments. After all, how could you be an asset when they couldn’t say _to your face_ what their problem was?

Besides, you’d earned rest many times over. Not being a performer for once in your many long years of life was a relief, even if it meant the distrust of the Avengers.

You took to wandering out after the tower went quiet, making yourself food and heading outside to gaze up at the stars—or down at the passing vehicles.

“Trouble sleeping?” You jumped, pivoting quickly away from your third cup of coffee and nearly dropped the creamer in your hands, “Sorry,” Loki’s tone was apologetic.

“It’s fine,” you shrug, turning back to your cooling coffee, “nope. You too?” You rubbed your neck, hiding your scars, as you turned to lean against the counter, “Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” he responded to your offer first and rolled his shoulders before answering your question, “not exactly.”

You cringed. You didn’t think the clatter of dishes disturbed any of them, but you’d been proven wrong. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

Loki was far from blind, least of all when it came to you. He’d been keeping an eye on you, noticing the distance you placed between yourself and all other inhabitants of the tower, save himself and Thor. He’d seen you fight and _knew_ you didn’t need him to coddle you, but he couldn’t help but worry. “Are you alright?”

Ice traveled down your spine as you felt pressure behind your eyes. _No_ , you weren’t and you don’t know if you ever would be or if you ever were. What right did you have to complain though? Even if the Avengers looked at you like they _knew_ what you had done—like they _knew_ you were a killer, a _monster—_ you were _hailed a hero_ that was enough to make anyone alright at the least.

“No.”

Both of you were frozen, your eyes locked with his own and you could see the sympathy there and you _didn’t want it_. You didn’t deserve it. Not from him, not from anyone as beautiful as him, not when you were scarred and ugly outside and in.

“You should talk to them.”

Of course you should, you knew that. Give Tony more than a harsh request for removing that _awful_ mirror, look them in the eyes, take Steve up on his offer for training, anything would be better than your attempts at avoiding them.

“That’s not it?”

He could read the expression on your face and you gave a single nod. It was only a small fraction of the storm inside of you. “I’m…” You didn’t know how to say it because, you knew, Loki had killed, but your own actions felt like something you could never wash away. Loki could have _stabbed_ _ **you**_ and gave a halfhearted apology and you’d still forgive him without a second thought.

You’d forgive him for anything but you could never forgive yourself.

**No.**

You had sworn you hadn’t but your mind seemed intent on proving that you had feelings for the man in front of you. The kind of feelings that got people like you hurt. The kind of feelings that you wouldn’t be able to resist even if your heart wasn’t so eager to latch onto someone.

You couldn’t wash the blood away.

And you couldn’t wash away the affection clouting your judgement and slamming against your chest.

“I…” You clutched your chest, everything you felt and everything you were clashing within you in the makings of an unstoppable storm, “I need to go.”

And you did.


End file.
